Damn but Annie had a sixth sense when it came to spotting trouble. “Hardly.”
“Because I know the In Touch isn’t making you rich.”
“I didn’t buy it to get rich.” No, she’d bought it to hold on to a piece of Lily. Sweet, caring Lily, who’d given her the best memories of an otherwise lonely childhood. Lily, who’d taught her to sew and encouraged her fashion design aspirations when her father had done little more than frown and bark “No” when she’d asked to go to design school. Lily, who’d always understood and never passed judgment.
Every time Deb walked into the tiny newspaper office, she could still smell the woman’s perfume. A mixture of vanilla and jasmine that sent a wave of peace through her. Lily had loved the In Touch, and Deb had loved Lily, and buying the paper, going there day after day, felt right.
“You know, I’m sure Tack would be willing to loan you the money.”
“I don’t borrow from friends.” From anyone. Deb Strickland paid her own way in life. That way her freedom was never compromised.
“Then talk to Jimmy. I’m sure you two can come to an agreement.”
“I will. Now stop worrying about me and let’s see about finding a maid of honor’s dress.”
They spent the next half hour cruising the racks in Laverne’s until Deb had accumulated an armload of possibilities. Annie went to the rear of the store to look at gloves, while Deb headed back to the dressing room.
She shed her jacket, shimmied out of her skirt and peeled off her silk blouse, then reached for a floor-length pink slip dress.
“Annie,” she called out through the open curtain as she fumbled to undo a row of tiny pearl buttons. “Come and see what you think about this.” She continued to struggle with the fastenings, silently cursing their impracticality.
“I think it looks great.” A deep, familiar voice slid into her ears and sent a prickle of heat to every erogenous zone—from her earlobes to her nipples, the backs of her knees to the arch of each foot, and many, many spots in between.
Her hands stalled and she became keenly aware of three important facts. Number one, she was almost naked. Number two, she was almost naked in front of Jimmy Mission who lounged in the dressing room doorway. Number three, she was almost naked in front of Jimmy Mission, and it made her very nervous.
Nervous? Since when did she get nervous in front of men?
She pushed aside the sensation and concentrated on the buttons rather than the handsome picture he made standing there wearing jeans and a denim shirt, the sleeves rolled up to the elbows.
“Better than great,” he added. “That’s definitely my favorite dress.”
“But I’m not wearing it yet.”
A fierce green gaze swept the length of her in a leisurely motion that made her nipples pebble and press against the cups of her favorite Swedish lace bra. “That’s the point, Slick.”
“Do you mind? I’d like a little privacy.”
He grinned and stepped inside the room. The curtain swished shut behind him.
“That’s not exactly what I meant.” She put her back to him, as if that could shut him out. The room, set up like a giant octagon, had mirrors on all sides and she couldn’t escape his reflection. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were trying to rattle me on purpose.”
His gaze captured hers in one of the mirrors. “But you know better, right?”
For a split second, she was fourteen years old again, staring into his green eyes as he held the door open, that damnable smile on his face as he waited.
That’s what he seemed to be doing now. Waiting. Watching.
She shook away the notion. She was a good fifteen years away from that painfully shy and sheltered girl, and she’d faced down men even better looking than Jimmy Mission.
Even so, her lips trembled around the next words. “What are you doing here?”
“Getting fitted for my tux. In case you’ve forgotten, I’m Tack’s best man.”
“I meant here. In the dressing room. My dressing room.”
“I saw Annie and she told me you were in here. I thought it was high time we talked.”
“I’d definitely say a month constituted high time.”
Green eyes twinkled. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were mad.”
It was her turn to toss his words back at him. “But you know better, right?” He grinned and an echoing shiver went through her body. She turned to the dress and struggled with the buttons.
Before she could take her next breath, he stepped up behind her, his arms came around and his hands closed over hers. “I wanted you to have plenty of time to think,” he murmured as long, lean fingers helped her work the buttons through the openings.
She tried for a calm voice. “Of a way out?”
“A way in, Slick.” His deep, compelling voice vibrated against the shell of her ear. “It’s much better that way.”
“You’re not very funny.”
His hands fell away and he let her slide the last button free, but he didn’t step back. He simply stood there, behind her, close but not touching. “I’m deadly serious.”
That was the trouble.
Trouble? Since when? He was a good-looking, virile man, and while she didn’t make it a habit of bedding everyone who fell into that category—despite her reputation to the contrary—she wasn’t exactly a virgin. She was attracted to him, and he’d conveniently wiped away the one barrier that had kept her from acting on her feelings. No strings attached.
“What if I say no?”
“I turn and walk away. We’ll work something out as far as the money goes and our business will be finished.”
He was giving her a way out.
One she would have taken in a heartbeat, except that their unfinished business had nothing to do with her debt and everything to do with the heat swamping her senses.
Since their first kiss, he’d become a part of her life. Jimmy Mission, with his wicked smile and his hungry lips, had become the star of her most erotic fantasies, the hero of her romantic dreams, the image that stole through her mind whenever another man smiled or flirted or merely tipped his hat.
One taste of him had led to a dangerous addiction that she desperately needed to kick, and sleeping with him would surely satisfy the curiosity his kisses had stirred. Surely. Then she could get on with her life, with running her newspaper and living each day on her own terms. No one dictating her every action, her every thought. No one stealing through her mind and working her hormones into a frenzy.
“I’ve been thinking about you, Slick.” His fingertip prowled along the slope of her bare shoulder and goose bumps danced down her arms. Her fingers went limp and the dress slithered to the carpeted floor.
She managed to swallow. “Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah.” He closed the heartbeat of space between them, his denim-covered thighs pressing against the backs of her legs, his groin nestled against her bottom so she could feel just how much he had been thinking about her. His cotton shirt cushioned her shoulder blades. The material brushed against the sensitive backs of her arms as he slid his hands around her waist. Strong, work-roughened fingertips skimmed her rib cage, stopping just shy of her lace-covered breasts.
It was highly erotic watching him in the mirror, his dark hands on her skin, his powerful body framing hers. It was even